


Semper Fidelis

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ancient Rome, Half Sibling Incest, M/M, Slavery, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 01:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20301532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: Killius was only five years old when his father came home with a new slave.  The boy was eight, and he is to be Kili's body slave.  Given a new name and a new purpose, Fillius takes his new role seriously.  Over the years, their relationship passes the boundaries of slave and master, or even friends, and war lurks on the horizon.





	1. And They Had This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts).

> This prologue might be familiar, but the rest of the story is all new!
> 
> Many thanks to Linane for the opportunity to write this story!

They were going to war.

They were going to war and this is what they had: Fíli’s hands on Kíli’s thighs under armored leather strips, Kíli’s fingers in Fíli’s hair as his helmet fell forgotten to the grass at their feet, moments stolen in Fíli’s tent as the army gathered outside. 

“Fíli,” Kíli whispered, and there was fear on his tongue, in his voice, that Fíli tried to chase away with kisses, with soothing strokes along his legs. His heart pounded in his temples.

“You’ll live,” Fíli said fiercely, gripping harder. “You’ll live.”

Shouts across the camp, the sounds of clashing metal and soldiers barking orders shivered through the tent walls. Kíli buried his face in the older dwarf’s neck – his slave, his property, his heart, all wrapped in stolen armor. “If I don’t,” he whispered against Fíli’s neck, “If I don’t, I’ve copied papers to Balin, Dain, my uncle, and Gloin in the treasury. You’ll be free-”

Fíli growled, one hand sliding between Kíli’s legs and stroking over the folded material there. “Kíli-”

Kíli lifted his head, met the blue glare straight on. He had known that face since he was a child, since his father came home with the boy over his mother’s objections about having a slave bastard in the house, living proof of his father’s inability to control himself. It had been another ten years before he understood what that meant. By then, Fili held Kíli’s heart in his hands and nothing else mattered: not that Fíli was a slave, not that Fíli was his half-brother, not that Fíli was older and not appropriate as a lover. “I have acknowledged you as my father’s son. You won’t be able to inherit anything, but people will think twice before denying you your freedom.”

“I am not free,” Fíli said, danger in his voice and love in his eyes. “If you die, I will never be free.” He pressed against Kíli’s erection – dear to him, better known than his own – slid the other around the back of Kíli’s neck. “I will follow your soul to Tartarus and demand your return. I will beg, or sing, or offer my body and my soul. I will slice my wrists open at the doorway and wait to be taken in to you.” Clever fingers tugged at the wrapping around Kíli’s groin with the ease of long practice, slid inside. “Don’t pretend you could grant me my freedom by dying.”

Kíli whimpered and dug his fingers into Fíli’s shoulders. Slaves didn’t fight in the emperor’s army, not beside their masters. When he had been called away, he’d planned to leave Fíli behind. Fíli had appeared a day behind him in his – their – father’s stolen armor, fierce determination in his face. “Fíli-”

“You offered me papers two years ago, and I told you they would force me from your side. You think I would accept your death for the same thing?” Fíli was angry now, as he so rarely was, and his hand trembled along Kíli’s jaw as he kissed him, hard and biting. “Don’t say that again. Never say that to me again.”

Kíli bucked against Fíli’s hand. “I wanted you to stay home, I wanted to know you were safe.”

“Then you should not have let me fall in love with you.” A bite to his jaw, to his neck, desperate. “You should not have been my master, and my brother, and my lover, and my teacher, and my friend. I am here, Kíli. Here with you, as I should be. You think it was chance your father trained us side by side, put illegal weapons in my hands?” He slid to his knees then, shoving at the leather _pteruges_. “I will not lose this. I will not lose you.” And he swallowed Kíli down, wet soft heat as Kíli bit down hard on his lip and curved forward, tugging at honeyed waves. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry,” because this wasn’t his Fíli, sucking too-hard, scrapes of teeth, hands tight and desperate on Kíli’s hips, curving around to his ass. “I love you.”

Fíli moaned, the sound vibrating along his gentling tongue. 

“I love you. I’m scared. I’m scared. What if you die? What if I’m left alone?”

Soft touches to his balls, rolling fingers, an apology, an affirmation. There was a time when they sneaked off together, rutting wildly between sweet kisses, never speaking, never giving this a name – the son of a centurion desperate for his slave, a slave in love with his master. A time when they spoke volumes with their bodies. The last year had changed that, fighting side by side because the army was desperate and would take anyone in armor, even someone everyone suspected to be a slave. They had words now, but their bodies could still speak for them. 

Fíli’s spoke now, words in his fingertips and fluttering in steady strokes of his tongue. _Then I will wait for you._

Kíli came, panting out his lover’s name like a prayer for long life, for luck, and Fíli swallowed it down as an offering.

He caught Kíli as the younger dwarf’s legs let out under him, arms strong around the metal breastplate. “I love you,” he murmured, because he could, because nothing else mattered.

“Live with me,” Kíli said, kissing him, chasing the taste of his come in Fíli’s mouth, “or die with me.”

“I swear, I swear,” Fíli murmured, hands gently putting him back to rights. “To live and die with you.”

They were going to war, and this is what they had: prayers and offerings and promises.


	2. Departures and Arrivals

The boy was seven years old the day the pale man came to his master’s home. For the first time in his short life, he was taken from his training in the kitchens and slave quarters , cleaned up, dressed in a new tunic, and led into the main atrium of Master Dainius Horatia Corillius’s villa. 

“Kneel,” the major domo hissed as the boy stared, frozen and wide-eyed in abject terror. The room was beautiful, with living plants and running water, but everyone stared at him, and his mother was far away. 

Dain wasn’t cruel to his house slaves, but he owned them. Mother had warned the boy to keep his head low, to be unseen – yet here he knelt, knees stinging from cracking against the marble floor. 

The man was smaller than Master Dain, and of the same pale complexion the boy saw in still waters and polished bronze. “This is the boy you wrote me about?” he asked, circling him with thoughtful eyes. He had a low, beautiful voice. “Your slave’s boy?”

“It is,” Master said. The boy tried not to tremble. 

The pale man took hold of the boy’s chin in firm fingers. He tipped his head back, staring into his face, checked his teeth, tilted his chin from side to side, studying the boy’s light eyes and profile with a thoughtful expression. 

“His features are hers, but what you said of his coloring is true enough. He’s a pretty thing.”

Master Dain grunted an affirmative. “He’s yours, at the price agreed,” he said.

The boy’s heart froze. 

He knew what being sold meant. 

“Yes. I’ll take him.” The pale man turned to his own slave. “Go get my purse, Bofur. We’re taking this one with us.”

The dark haired slave slid out of the room. The pale man turned away from the boy, decision made. “What do you call him?”

“Flavus,” Master Dain answered, “when we call him anything.” The pale man gave a derisive laugh.

“Of course. ‘Golden.’” He quirked an eyebrow. “I certainly hope you’ve no idea I’ve been called such myself, when we served in the army.”

Master Dain smiled slowly. “Of course not, Villius.”

“No matter. I’ve a better name in mind.” The twist of his smile was cruel. “My lady wife will adore it.”

The boy’s voice rose, quiet but determined. He wasn’t sure they would hear him over the wild beating of his heart. “What about Mother?” 

Master Dain shot him a warning look, and the major domo gripped the back of his small neck, but the pale man only laughed again. “I don’t need her, boy.” He grinned at him, but the look didn’t make the boy happy; it frightened him. “I’d say she played her part eight years ago.”

The men in the room chuckled. The boy didn’t understand why. It would be several years under his new owner before he understood the sly laughter that would follow him, understood everything. 

That day, as Master Villius Horatia Britannis took him away, all the boy knew was fear.

He was not allowed to say good-bye, nor to gather his meager belongings. He was placed in a cart and driven away from the villa that had been his entire life, to cross the hot Roman roads to Villius’s home, two weeks away.

\-----

Mother was furious about the new slaves, but Kíli didn’t know why.

He could hear her yelling across the courtyard, but he wisely stayed with his nurse, hiding in her skirt. Dis gently petted his hair and told him not to worry, to come and play, that adult problems were not yet his problems. But Kíli knew enough to know that his mother’s anger was nothing to take lightly, even at five. 

“Enough, Woman!” his father finally boomed, and there was the sound of flesh on flesh and Kíli curled up in a little ball in Dis’s lap as she sang him a lullaby. “I make the decisions in this household, and I say the boy stays!” 

“Keep your little bastard then, Vili,” Mother spat. “May he bring back upon you all the dishonor you heap on me having him here!” 

Another strike, a cry of pain – Mother’s, so he was hitting her this time. _Please don’t hit me too_ Kíli whispered in his mind. “Take him to Kíli’s room, Bofur,” Father said, his voice taunting. “He can be a body slave to my son.”

“Don’t you dare!” A vase crashed, even as Bofur’s kind voice murmured acquiescence, and Kíli heard the familiar step of his sandals on the tiles. 

“Wipe your tears, little one,” Dis murmured. “Bofur’s bringing someone for you to meet.” Dis rose to her feet, pulling the young master along as well and wiping his face with a corner of her chiton. 

“Dis, Master Kilius,” Bofur said quietly as he stepped into the room. He smiled warmly, even as he ushered forward a frightened boy, not much older than Kíli but fair like Father. Kíli looked like Mother, which Mother never let Father forget for an instant. “This is,” he faltered, looking down at the boy. “This is a new slave. He’ll be serving the young master for tonight.” He looked back over his shoulder. “We’ll see what the long-term plan is in the morning.”

Kíli peeked around Dis. “Hello,” he said, his voice small.

The boy looked back at him, chin trembling. “This is your Master’s son,” Bofur told him. “You will be serving him. Greet him appropriately.”

The boy hurried forward and fell to his knees. “Young Master Ki-Killius,” he said, “I am your servant, Flavus Dainius M-”

Bofur squatted and stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “Your name has changed,” he said. “Your new master chose it.” His eyes flickered to meet Dis’s, then away, something unspoken that Kíli didn’t understand. “You are Fillius Villius Britannious.” 

Dis gasped, her hand covering her lips. “Surely he didn’t,” she breathed, but Bofur sent her a sharp warning glance. 

Kíli meanwhile, clapped his hands together in delight. “Your name is like mine!” he said, going down on his hands and knees and crawling over to the strange boy before Dis could grab him for the inappropriateness of so lowering himself to a slave. “I’m Killius Horatia Britannious. Kíli.” He smiled warmly. “I’ll call you Fíli.”

The boy-Fíli- raised his head. “Master Killius,” he said, the word unfamiliar on his lips. 

“Kíli,” Kíli said again, even as Bofur said sternly, “He shall call you Killius, young master, or he’ll be in trouble.”

Kíli’s eyes filled with tears. He was only five years old, and Father was home, and he and Mother were fighting, and he didn’t understand any of this. The boy had a name like his. Shouldn’t they be friends? Dis taught him to be kind, even to the servants. He sniffled, and one tear slid free as he drew his hand to scrub at his eyes with one wrist.

“Oh!” the slave boy said, and he shifted forward without thinking and gathered up the younger boy in a hug. He didn’t have little siblings of his own, but he was responsible and kind and often kept an eye on the other children in the slave quarters. “Don’t cry, young master,” he said sweetly, lifting his own toga to clean the falling tears and tugging Kíli’s wrist away. Kíli sniffled and looked at him with red eyes. “No one is angry at you, see?” he looked up into Dis’s startled eyes, but she couldn’t hide a soft smile. “Your lady nurse will help you learn the right way.”

Kíli looked up as Dis knelt beside them, her hands fluttering as if unsure what she should do. “Yes, of course,” she said softly. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Master Kíli. Young,” he voice caught strangely at the name, “Fíli is right.” Gently, she disentangled them, though Kíli pouted and reached for his new friend. Fíli was soft, even if he was dusty and grimy from the road. “Come, we must get you cleaned back up before your parents come to tell you good night.”

Kíli winced. He didn’t want Mother and Father to come when they were angry at each other. It was so much nicer when Father was away. 

Above his head, the adults exchanged an entire conversation in looks, and Bofur said, “Fíli, come with me. We’ll get you cleaned up in the servant’s quarters and . . .” he glanced around the young master’s room, looking for an inconspicuous place to keep the boy out of the way, “and we’ll make you a pallet to sleep on.” He lifted Fíli to his hip, ignoring the boy’s little gasp of surprise, and hurried out of the room, saying to Dis, “I will have him back in a few minutes. We’ll try and keep him out of sight, but she will probably ask for him,” as he went.

Dis shook her head and took her charge’s small hands, kissing his short dark curls. “Come, my dearest. Let’s get you in a clean tunic,” she said. Kíli obeyed, confused and afraid and wanting to see his new friend again.

\-----

The new mistress did ask to see Fíli, and it wasn’t good.

“So,” she said as she glided in, Master on her heels, “let’s see the little bastard.”

“Selene,” Master chided, though he wasn’t frowning. His eyes were amused, and his mouth curled into a strange smile. There was a red mark on his cheek, and a bruise around the mistress’s eye, and Fíli tried to disappear into the pile of pillows Bofur had placed him in when he returned, hair and another new tunic slightly damp from his hurried bath. “Kílius! Come here, my boy!”

Fíli watched as the young master – Kíli – inched forward with none of the friendly openness he’d shown minutes before. “Father,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Don’t you like the present I bought you?” Master asked, grinning. “Bring him out, Kíli, let’s see him.”

Fíli knew this meant him, even before Kíli turned, lip caught in his teeth, and made a motion for Fíli to come out. Fíli did, knowing better than to disobey, even if he could end up cuffed even for doing as he was told. The Master looked down at him with a strange expression Fíli didn’t understand. He came to a stop beside Kíli, and then went down to his knees, looking down as a slave ought. 

The Mistress curled her lip. “He does look like your barbarian mother,” she said. This earned a dark look from Master, and a gasp from Kíli, who inched backward even as Master grabbed the back of Mistress’s neck.

“That’s enough from you,” he hissed. “I try to keep my good humor, but you go too far, woman.” He released her with a shove, sending her stumbling to the side.

Fíli didn’t look up. He knew better.

The mistress took in a few shaky breaths. “Yes,” she said evenly, “yes, husband.” 

The Master leaned down and tilted Fíli’s head back as he had done in Master Dain’s villa. “He’s bright enough, or so Bofur says. He’ll make a fine gift for my son.” He smiled at Kíli. “Don’t you think so?”

Kíli’s small hands wrung together so tightly the skin turned red and white. Fíli barely stopped himself from reaching out to calm them. “He’s mine?” he asked.

“No,” the mistress said shortly. “He’s your father’s. But your father wishes for him to serve you, so he will.” Her gray eyes met Fíli’s, and he was terrified at the hatred in them. “You,” she said, in a cold voice, “will be a proper and well-behaved slave to my son. I will see to that.”

Fíli swallowed, trying to stay calm. _Only let them see your fear if it might save you,_ his mother had told him. “Yes, Mistress,” he answered.

“Good. We’ll start in the morning then, Boy.” She said the word as it had been said in Master Dain’s slave quarters; as if it was a name, shared among him and the other slave boys. “For now, go back to your corner and stay out of the way.” 

Fíli did, trying not to scramble, trying to be calm, all while never turning his back. This woman was as dangerous to him as a venomous snake, and he must keep her in his sights or be struck. 

“And you,” she said to Kíli, her expression softening. “To bed. Nurse will tuck you in.” She nodded to Dis, who bowed respectfully. 

The Master looked pleased, and wished his son good night as well. They left together, not touching, as if a shield stood between them to halt swords on both sides. Dis was kind as she put Kíli to bed, tucking him in, shushing his fears. She also came to Fíli’s pile of pillows, her hands touching the unusual yellow of his hair. 

“Try to sleep well, Filius,” she whispered to him. “I know this is frightening, but you’ll find it is not so bad here, once you learn the way of it.” 

“Good night, Nurse Dis,” Fíli whispered back. 

She slept on a proper pallet on the floor, the sort he would have in the coming days. 

Fíli curled into a ball, listening to her soft snores, desperately fighting not to make a sound as tears streamed down his face. How could he sleep? He had no mother, no friends, no fellow slave children sleeping in a pile. He was so, so scared.

The moon was high when he heard a rustling and the padding of small, bare feet, and then a voice:

“Fíli?”

Fíli wiped at his eyes and rolled over to see the messy-haired younger boy, his eyes red and his nose snotty, a blanket held tight in his hand. “Young master?” he asked, voice rough. 

Kíli shuffled from foot to foot. His mouth opened and closed. Tears welled in his eyes. Then, as if it was allowed, as if it was the only and right thing to do, the son of Villius crawled onto the slave boy’s pillows and pulled the blanket over both their heads. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” the five year old whispered wetly. “So you can sleep.”

Fíli bit his lips. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, and his little master kissed his forehead and cuddled close, humming a little song as he awkwardly stroked tangled blond hair.


End file.
